


If You Need Anyone To Stand Around And Not Contribute, You Know Where I'll Be

by perkalowy (Mikkeneko)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, Insecurity, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Not Especially Competent Jaskier, just a hint of angst, usefulness is overrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26413312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/perkalowy
Summary: Geralt brings his boyfriend Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen to meet his family for the first time -- including his father-figure, Vesemir. Jaskier desperately hopes to be able to prove his usefulness to the old Witcher, but it's hard to measure up to the standards of the man who trained the Wolf Witchers...A story about love, family, and usefulness.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir
Comments: 40
Kudos: 375
Collections: Geraskier Exchange





	If You Need Anyone To Stand Around And Not Contribute, You Know Where I'll Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DancingLassie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingLassie/gifts).



> **Full Content Notes:**  
>  References to strained, if not actually abusive, relationships between parent and child. Brief descriptions of low-level violence with minor injuries (in the sparring scene); nonexplicit description of more serious injuries, depictions of both proper and improper wound care (in the first aid scene); brief description of vomiting (in the first aid scene); nonexplicit description of Geralt and Jaskier sleeping together (following the first aid scene.)

When the truck at last rattled and jolted across the final ruts and lumbered to a stop, when Geralt turned the key in the ignition and the powerful engine coughed once and finally silenced, Jaskier had to concentrate to unpeel himself from the passenger side cab and work the door open. Stretching his legs felt strange after so many hours packed into the cab with Geralt's bag and his own taking up most of the footwell. He fell more than stepped down from the fender to the ground, taking a moment to prop each foot against the muddy tires and stretch out his calves.

In the trailer behind the truck their other passengers stamped and snorted, curious as to why their transport had stopped. Jaskier could recognize the distinctive whinny of Roach, Geralt's favorite horse; but he'd brought along three others as well, two workers and one stallion. To improve Kaer Morhen's stables, he'd said. Vesemir's orders.

The ride up the mountains had felt endless as the grade had steepened, the houses became fewer and the political signs became redder. Jaskier wasn't at all sure he would have been willing to risk staying the night in some of these sundown towns, with his clothing and his piercings and bright-dyed hair marking him as a university boy; but Kaer Morhen, Geralt had emphasized, was safe. Safe from monsters, safe from men. 

They'd made it by late afternoon, the sun stretching hot and red-gold over the meadows and ridges of the Kestrel Mountains to the north and east. Outside the protection of the truck's intermittent AC the heat really slammed down, but it was worth it to be standing still and out in the fresh air. 

The car door slammed and the truck rocked as Geralt stepped down from the driver's side, pocketing the keys. "We're here," he reported, and Jaskier couldn't help but roll his eyes and smile at the same time. Leave it to Geralt to narrate the obvious.

"Should we check in somewhere?" Jaskier said, turning this way and that. "Is there a front office or something? Do we get passes? Do I need a visitor's badge?"

Geralt snorted as he came around the truck to stand at Jaskier's side, although Jaskier had only been half-joking. "You know you don't need anything like that," he said. "You're with me. That's all the pass you need."

Jaskier leaned into him for a moment, grateful for the closeness and the support -- although ten hours in a truck cab had done Geralt's hygiene no favors, so Jaskier pushed away from him after only a few moments. "Sure," he said. "If you say so."

"I know so." Geralt let him wriggle free of the embrace and headed back around to the trailer, unlatching the back doors with an echoing  _ clank. _ "You can see dust on the road twenty miles out, from here. The others know we're here, they'll come out to help with the horses."

"The others. Right," Jaskier said, trying to regain some of his usual cocky confidence. "Lambert, who I haven't met yet. You said you didn't think Eskel would be here yet. And... Vesemir."

Vesemir was the one he was really nervous about. The most senior Witcher of the Wolf School, the only instructor to survive the Purges. By now, he was nearing five hundred years old, a half-millennium of dark and violent history. And the closest thing Geralt had to a father.

Over the last few years Jaskier had pieced most of this together from context, offhand statements that came together to paint an intimidating picture. Geralt didn't speak of Vesemir often, but when he did... it was always so fraught with emotion. He had to ask. "Babe... I have to ask. Are you..." Jaskier hesitated. "Are you --  _ afraid  _ of Vesemir?"

Geralt's hand jerked in instinctive denial. "Not -- not like you're asking," he said. "He was never cruel to us. But he was stern. He'd drill us a hundred times. No dinner, no bed til we got it right."

"But did he..." Jaskier bit his lip. He had his own daddy issues, he knew, and he tried not to let them poison the well of his and Geralt's relationship. But Geralt was ten times braver than Jaskier could ever be; anything, anyone who could daunt  _ him _ would be able to squash Jaskier like a bug. "Did he ever..."

"He never had to," Geralt reassured him. "The worst thing in the world was his disappointment. Knowing that we weren't good enough."

"He sounds like a real martinet."

"If he was strict with us it was because he had to be," Geralt said. He sounded like he was reciting, or quoting someone. "He wasn't cruel. But he knew the world would be hard on us. He worked himself to the bone to make us ready, and we... we tried to live up to him."

And, well, Jaskier could understand that. He didn't know if he agreed, but -- his opinion wasn't important, here.

"Vesemir... he has his own ways, but he respects hard work and good effort," Geralt continued. "Just prove that you're willing to work and to learn, and I'm sure he'll warm up to you before long."

"Right," Jaskier nodded. Further conversation was cut off as the door to the ranch slammed shut; they looked up as heavy boots crunched over gravel towards them.

"Vesemir," Geralt said, straightening up as the man approached him, exchanging nods. 

"Boys," the stranger said, his voice gravelly, and Jaskier looked Vesemir in the face at last.

Vesemir was... shorter than Jaskier expected. He wasn't sure what he  _ had _ been expecting. Maybe it was just that Geralt was so tall and yet Geralt always talked about Vesemir like he blotted out the sky; a man like that could be no less than a mountain in Jaskier's mind. But in person, he was just another man. A little under average height -- stooped, maybe, compared to what he might once have been. But even in the prime of his life he wouldn't have topped Geralt's chin.

He had an eclectic sense of fashion for sure; leather chaps over denim jeans, army boots from at least last century's wars, a Skelligan housecoat over all. He managed to wear it with an aggressive indifference to appearance that made it work for him somehow -- fashion was 80% attitude anyway. His nose, cheeks and forearms were ruddy from exposure to the sun, spotted here and there with darker melanin splotches. The tan-lines of a man who worked outdoors more often than not, for certain. 

But more than anything else, Vesemir felt...  _ old. _ Which was weird for Jaskier to think, since he knew perfectly well that Geralt had been Witchering around the Continent for a century before Jaskier had even been out of diapers. But even with that shock of white hair Geralt never looked like an old man -- solid and razor-edged, keen and energized. Like a clean-cut stone face in a marble quarry, all right angles and sharp crystal edges. 

Vesemir... Vesemir looked like a mountain face that had been worn down by the wind and sun and trickle of water, rubbed away by time until his edges were rounded and his heavy bones sagged with the weight of years. His eyes -- slit-pupiled, just like Geralt's -- were the color of the sun setting through a heavy fog.

"So," Vesemir said, folding his arms and cocking his head slightly as he studied Jaskier. "This is your pet bard."

Pressed against Geralt, Jaskier heard the growl that he  _ almost  _ completely suppressed. "This is Jaskier," he said, and Vesemir let out a little huff. "He's a songwriter and musician. And my boyfriend."

With some difficulty Jaskier drew himself up straight and turned to look at Vesemir, pasting a diplomatic smile on his face and holding out his hand. "How do you do, sir," he said.

Vesemir looked at him, but made no move to take the hand. After a moment Jaskier lowered it, trying to make the gesture look graceful. "A songwriter, eh," he said, and it was difficult to decode what emotion was mixing in his voice, but it didn't sound like approval. "So, you walk the Path with Geralt. He taught you to defend yourself yet?"

"Oh, he's tried," Jaskier was quick to defend his boyfriend. "I'm, well, pretty hopeless at anything involving violence."

Vesemir frowned at him, and Jaskier remembered belatedly that pacifism was not always considered a virtue. "How's your first aid?" Vesemir asked.

"Terrible," Jaskier admitted. He barely refrained from adding on that he tended to throw up at the sight of blood; probably wouldn't help his case.

"Got any woodscraft?"

"Not to speak of." The last camping trip Geralt had dragged him on had nearly ended in disaster when Jaskier tried to follow what he thought was a well-marked trail and ended up in a previously undiscovered cave system. Hey, it was a net benefit to the study of speleology, he figured.

"Chemistry? Metalworking? Woodworking?" Vesemir wanted to know. "Any crafting, for that matter."

"Does word-crafting count?" Jaskier asked hopefully. He'd written six songs in Feainn alone this year, that was a personal record!

Vesemir narrowed his eyes at him. "Can't shoe a horse or brew a potion with words, so no," he said.

"Then... no," Jaskier muttered.

"Hmm." Vesemir studied him, his yellow eyes heavy and piercing as they seemed to drill right into his skull. "Got any skills at all?"

Jaskier was almost indignant enough to protest. He had  _ lots _ of skills, thanks. He could sight-read sheet music and write his own, could transpose a song after listening to it just once. Back in his storage unit at Oxenfurt were all the instruments that he could play that wouldn't fit in his flat -- dozens of them, more different kinds of instruments than many people knew even  _ existed _ . (Mind you he played some of them very, very  _ badly, _ but he could at least coax sound out of each of them.) He could raise the tone of any party he went to, navigate the Novigrad underground without even a map, had excellent google-fu, and could guess at a glance anyone's BDSM kinks with a 60% accuracy rate. Just that spring  _ Elusive  _ had made it to position 17 onto Radio Continental's top 20 hits, and that was  _ without _ even a label backing him up!

But in terms of the kinds of skills Vesemir meant?  _ Real _ skills?

"Er..... no," Jaskier said after a long, heavy, expectant silence. "Not -- not to speak of, no."

The silence deepened, grew more skeptical, and Jaskier panicked. "But I can learn!" he hastened to assure Vesemir. "I assure you that I can be a valuable, nay,  _ in _ valuable addition to your Witchering industry!"

"We'll see," Vesemir grunted, and strode away with another word.

"Well!" Jaskier said as the door swung shut behind the old Witcher. He looked at Geralt, doing his best  _ not _ to plead for reassurance. "That... could've gone worse?"

Geralt was looking after Vesemir with a deep frown, a little knot of worry between his eyes. "It could have," he said, but he didn't sound very sure of it. "Come on. I'll show you our room."

  
  


* * *

  
  


The first day after arriving at Kaer Morhen -- once all the inevitable running around of getting settled in was over with, after a hectic morning spent spinning in separate orbits as Jaskier learned the basic layout of the ranch and Geralt attended to some repairs too urgent to wait -- Geralt let Jaskier accompany him down to the alchemy lab to start earning his keep.

"Not bad! You've got the whole modern setup here," he enthused as he saw the place. Honestly, he'd been expecting a castle dungeon. "Honestly, I was expecting some sort of creepy castle dungeon, but this place is nice and airy, and wow! Is that a spectrometer?"

"These are the new labs," Geralt said; he flipped a few creaky switches by the door as fans and lights started up somewhere inside. "There used to be a real 'creepy castle dungeon' workshop in the old keep, but when we pulled the walls down for good we moved all our crafting operations to the new building."

"It's way more than I've ever seen you use on the road," Jaskier commented. "Usually it's just some everclear, some awful monster bits, shaken with ice, down the hatch."

Geralt gave a disconsolate 'hmm.' "That's usually the best we can manage in field conditions," he said. "It gets us by. But for the more advanced potions, the high-quality ones, we refine them here. One of the big reasons for needing to come back to Kaer Morhen every year. Some of the more complicated recipes take weeks to refine."

"Holy shit! Weeks?" Jaskier exclaimed. "And you make  _ how many _ of these in a season? How do you have time to get  _ anything _ else done?"

"It's not one at a time, you can run off batches," Geralt said. "And you don't have to babysit them the whole time. But it is a pretty big drain on our time. That's why Vesemir hoped you could help."

"Sure," Jaskier said, drawn out of his enthusiasm for all things Witcher-related by a reminder as to why they were here. He had to prove himself to Vesemir -- had to show the old man that he could learn and be helpful to Geralt in his Witchering, in order to be allowed by his side on any kind of a permanent basis. If he couldn't prove himself useful...

_ No sweat, _ he told himself confidently. He could do this. He'd graduated from college with a Master's, hadn't he? Sure, it was an MFA, but he'd still had to do enough science courses in his freshman year to fill out the generals. Any chemistry that surly old men from 200 years ago could master, he could surely manage as well.

"What are we making today?" he asked as Geralt moved around the lab, flipping switches as equipment roared into life. 

"Blizzard," Geralt said. He opened a metal container, and some very intriguing looking white fog wafted out. "This batch has been distilling for months now, becoming more effective and potent. This will be the last phase, and we'll use it for the rest of the year on the Path."

"Blizzard," Jaskier said thoughtfully. "Hm, is that the one that makes your eyes all black and sexy, or the one that makes your skin all white and sexy, or the one that makes your veins all black and sexy?"

Geralt snorted, but Jaskier snuck a look at his face and saw the corner of his mouth turn up; he never missed an opportunity to tease Geralt, and reassure him at the same time that he didn't find the transformations disturbing or frightening in the least. "Neither. It makes the perception of time slow down in a fight. Good for defense  _ and _ offense; lets you dodge hits easier, land them better. It's one of our most valuable resources."

Jaskier hummed. "Then I'm glad to be able to help you with it," he said. "Let's get to it!"

Geralt showed Jaskier around the lab, explaining the purpose of the various mysterious machines and the ranks and ranks of ingredients. (He briefly wondered why there weren't lab coats and gloves and glasses around; didn't chemistry labs normally have pretty strict policies on protective equipment? Well, maybe Witchers didn't need such things. He put it out of his mind.)

Some of the ingredients were mundane, like the metal tins full of dried herbs or the flasks of water and oil and mercury. Some were arcane, like the glass bottles of alchemical reagents whose names Jaskier had never even heard of before now (they were only used in the more advanced potions, the ones Geralt didn't make on the road.) And some were downright insane, glass-fronted cases full of rows and columns of carefully-labeled chopped-up monster bits.

It was a lot to take in. Fortunately, Jaskier had always been able to learn and memorize things quickly; being a music major meant he'd developed mnemonic systems that quickly let him associate new things with a system and store it for later. Before an hour had passed Geralt seemed satisfied with the tour, and had set Jaskier to brewing a complicated recipe in an Erhlenmeyer flask over a blue-white flame. 

"Jaskier, focus," Geralt admonished him as he tried to sneak a kiss to the back of his neck as the mixture bubbled. He smiled as he said it, but his voice was firm.

"I've got a timer on, five more minutes," Jaskier whined. Geralt didn't look up from where he was dicing something unmentionable.

"Still, the recipe is volatile, you really should be watching it closely," he said, and Jaskier sighed in agreement. This wasn't playtime; it was important work for the wellbeing of the Wolf School, and to convince Vesemir to accept him as a worthy partner for Geralt. (Still, he snuck one last grope of Geralt's lovely ass on his way back to his station.)

"This stuff stinks like a chemical toilet," Jaskier commented as he watched the mixture brew, chin supported on his hands, "but it definitely is a pretty color. Looks like a sunset, or like the heart of a fire captured in crystal."

For some reason that made Geralt look up sharply, sniff the air deeply, and turn to step over towards Jaskier with his brow furrowed. "Jaskier, you added rubis, right?" he said.

"Sure I did," Jaskier said, glancing at the page of instructions and then reaching for the glass flask on the workbench. "This red stuff, right? Rubis, ruby, ruby red?"

Geralt looked at the flask with an all-too-familiar expression on his face, as the whistling noise emanating from the stove reached a fever pitch. The next moment, he was tackling Jaskier to the floor and rolling over him, shielding Jaskier with his body, as the air of the laboratory ignited in flames.

\---

As science projects went, it wasn't Jaskier's  _ most _ spectacular failure, but it was definitely a solid second.

* * *

  
  


The second day started much too early.

It wasn't that Jaskier had never seen 5AM before, but usually from the other side. He did his best to suppress a mighty yawn, pinching himself discreetly on the inside of his elbow in the hopes that the sting would keep him awake.

Kaer Morhen was still in shadow, the sun not yet having climbed over the eastern ridge, and there was a strange blue shadowless light that seemed to permeate everything. At least it was cool. A little too cool, Jaskier thought with a shiver. But the sky overhead was crystal clear, with a few grey-pinking clouds drifting through the pale blue, and the yard was already alive with the sound of voices and the clanking of steel. Vesemir and Lambert were, somehow,  _ already _ up.

"Here," Geralt said, and Jaskier blinked himself awake to see Geralt pull the lid off a crate with a ratcheting noise of splintering wood and bending nails. Geralt reached in and pulled out a -- a stick, as best as Jaskier could make out, about the length of his forearm in beautiful dark wood. "We'll work on parries today, just to get you used to handling a sword."

"I already know how t -- " Jaskier bit his tongue in the middle of the dirty joke that had just  _ automatically _ sprung forth at such a straight line. Geralt's brother and  _ father _ were  _ right there, _ for heaven's sake. From the gleam in Geralt's eye and the tiny crook of his lips he knew exactly what Jaskier had been about to say, but went on with his lecture as though Jaskier hadn't spoken.

"We'll use the wooden swords today because we have them. But if your aim is only defense and not attack, you can use almost any object that you find to hand," Geralt continued. "Baseball bats, fire pokers, a stick off the ground, a fire axe, even a flute or a violin if that's all you have -- anything can be used to block an incoming attack."

"Oh, no, I couldn't," Jaskier protested, shocked by even the  _ implication. _ Even the tougher woodwinds could be permanently damaged just by  _ dropping _ them, let alone deliberately putting them in the path of danger. "Geralt, you  _ know _ how valuable those instruments are --"

"I do know," Geralt interrupted. "You spend more of your money on their upkeep than your own most of the time. But no matter how valuable they are, your life is worth more."

Silently Jaskier doubted this, but he didn't pursue the matter. Geralt handed him the training sword, showed him how to grip it, how to set his feet and his stance. Jaskier couldn't object to this part of the lesson  _ at all, _ Geralt's strong hands guiding his shoulders or his hips. (Even if it did make his thoughts wander to nights past, memories of  _ other _ times Geralt had put his hands on his hips like that --  _ father and brother, right there, _ Jaskier reminded himself hastily.)

Geralt guided his arm through the blocking stroke, then stepped away while Jaskier repeated it himself. "That's not so hard," he said, feeling foolishly pleased with himself.

Geralt gave him a small smile. "Just one by itself isn't," he said. "Try doing it fifty times in succession before you decide whether it's hard or not. I mean that, by the way. Fifty repetitions, starting now."

Jaskier groaned theatrically. "You hate me, don't you," he said. "This is a kind of punishment, isn't it? You're making me do all this work because you hate me and want me to suffer."

Geralt's eyes flicked to the edge of the yard, where Vesemir was sitting on the porch steps, watching them. "No," he said, but there was some indefinable tension in his voice that Jaskier couldn't parse. "This is how you learn it."

Jaskier grumbled a bit more, but settled into the repetitions. Geralt was right that the light practice sword got a  _ lot _ heavier once you swung it a few dozen times; but Jaskier's wrists and forearms were already pretty strong from years and years of instrument practice. At a certain point it stopped being a burn and just settled into a pleasant ache -- it certainly helped warm him up against the chill.  _ I think I'm getting the hang of this, _ he thought, pleased.

Geralt had moved off from tutoring him to spar with Lambert instead, and watching them was a lesson in its own right. Even aside from the sheer aesthetic satisfaction of watching two handsome, absolutely cut men going at it, he could almost see how the basic movement of blocking and parrying formed the center of most of their defensive moves. 

When Vesemir stood up on the porch, though, his parade-ground voice commanded instant attention from everyone in the yard. "Geralt, Lambert, that's enough," he called out, and Geralt and Lambert came to an instant halt with Geralt's sword inches away from Lambert's ribs and Lambert's knuckles just barely grazing Geralt's jaw. "Geralt, give me a mile. Lambert, come face off against Jaskier."

Geralt took off running immediately, but Lambert took a look at Jaskier and hesitated. "You sure about that?" he said.

Vesemir turned a look of disapproval for asking the question that made Lambert -- not quite flinch, but Jaskier saw how his hand tightened on the hilt of his weapon. "You heard me right," he said. "He won't learn anything about blocking unless he has something real to block against. Give him some practice, half-time."

Lambert shrugged in acquiescence, and walked past Jaskier to the weapons bench without seeming to acknowledge his presence at all. He swapped out his steel sword for a heavy-looking wooden one without even glancing at Jaskier; Jaskier began to feel a bit nervous, clutching at his own weapon, realizing for the first time that it was half the size of Lambert's. Geralt was already out of sight.

"What should I do?" Jaskier called out nervously, glancing at Vesemir's impassive face as Lambert walked over to him. "Should I... try to hit him, or..."

Lambert snorted. "You should be so lucky," he said. He fell into an alert stance only a few feet away, sword in his hand poised for a wicked drop of kinetic energy. "Just try not to die."

Vesemir said nothing at all but Jaskier could feel his eyes on his back, watching. Judging. It made him nervous and the way Lambert was eyeing him up -- like a pike closing in on a goldfish -- didn't help.

"Begin!" Vesemir called, and several things happened at once.

Lambert swung his practice sword in a broad diagonal cut. All Jaskier could see was fifteen pounds of solid wood coming towards his face. All the drills Geralt had had him do deserted him and he flinched; yelped; dropped his practice sword on his foot; doubled over to clutch it, and in doing so took Lambert's swing to the face after all.

Either Geralt had finished his mile in record time, or Jaskier's yelping summoned him back with the speed of a teleport; within sixty seconds he was there, yelling at Lambert for not having pulled his swing while Lambert tried to defend himself and Jaskier tried to talk around his bloody nose.  _ "He would have been fine if he held his stance!" "He just started today, he doesn't know  _ **_shit_ ** _ about holding a stance!" "Come on, Geralt, we were practicing with live steel in our first week! A little love tap's not gonna --" "He's  _ **_fucking_ ** _ bleeding!" "He's fine! He's tough, just pinch his nose and hold his head back for a few --" _

As Geralt and Lambert got into each other's faces Jaskier backed off and sat heavily down on his ass on the practice yard, pinching the bridge of his nose as directed. He glanced over to see Vesemir stand up from the porch, shaking his head, and walk slowly back inside.

  
  


* * *

  
  


On the third day, Eskel showed up.

Unlike Lambert and Vesemir, this wasn't the first time that Jaskier had met Eskel. His path had crossed with Geralt's once or twice out on the road, including the time they had teamed up to take out a serious harpy infestation outside a beachside resort. Twice the three of them had spent a night piled into Eskel's camper, with barely a foot wide space of carpeting for him to sleep on while the Witchers crammed into the fold-out bed and fixtures smelling overpoweringly of chlorine. But it beat sleeping in the cold or the rain. 

He liked Eskel. He thought, hoped, that Eskel liked him too; he didn't have as much experience translating his microexpressions as he did with Geralt, but they'd shared drinks and sang along together to his songs on the radio and that had to count for something. Eskel was  _ mellow, _ if the word could be applied to a Witcher; he'd thought he was downright  _ boring _ compared to Geralt, a regular goody-two-shoes of a Witcher. Until they'd spent a night playing Never Have I Ever and heard Eskel relate the time he'd done fisstech off a hooker's ass and had marathon sex with a succubus for forty-eight straight hours. It was hard not to look at someone with a newfound respect after hearing a story like that: dumb? Sure. But  _ impressive. _

Sort of like the way you couldn't help but look at someone who stumbled in after a two-day slog through ditches in the rain to arrive at Kaer Morhen on foot, because his camper had gotten bogged down in a washed-out stretch of road and had to be abandoned. He'd come the rest of the way on foot rather than call anyone to come get him -- "figured I'd clean out the big slough while I was in the neighborhood," he grunted, and had the suppurating arm wound to prove it. 

A wound he'd tied off with a rubber strap and put in a sling for the rest of the trip to the ranch; by the time he got there the bite was an ugly, purpling mess that smelled disturbingly foul.

"For fuck's sake, Eskel," Geralt grumbled as he hauled the other Witcher into the infirmary. "You couldn't so much as field dress it?"

Eskel let out a pained little grunt as his ass hit the padded bench. He gave a little shrug. "No chance of getting a sterile bandage out in the middle of the fucking swamp like that," he said. "Wrapping would just have trapped the filth in there with it. Figured it could hold till I made it somewhere with proper medical supplies."

Geralt let out a put-upon sigh and went to get some of the medical supplies. Jaskier peered at Eskel's arm with a horrified fascination. "It's not full of some kind of horrible hag poison, is it?" he said morbidly.

"No," Vesemir said, giving the bite a critical once-over. "If there was necrophage poison involved he'd probably have lost the whole arm by now. This is just a regular, garden-variety abscess."

"Oh joy," Eskel grunted as Geralt came back with a double handful of bottles and implements. He spread them out in a clinical, well-practiced array and grabbed a swab to start with, before Vesemir stopped him with a gesture.

"I think we have a learning opportunity here," he said, and turned towards Jaskier. "Jaskier, you said you'd be interested in learning more first aid, correct?"

"Now I'm the guinea pig, better and better," Eskel grumbled, and Vesemir gave him a cuff across the ear.

"If you didn't want to be part of a beginner's demonstration, you shouldn't have made a beginner's mistake!" he scolded, and turned back to Jaskier. "Well?"

"Uh... sure," Jaskier said, trying to add a little more pep to his voice. He smiled, though it felt more like a grimace. "Right now? Like, right here? Now? Isn't this a little, um, much for a first go?"

"Geralt will do most of it," Vesemir said, and Jaskier breathed again. The old man handed over a square white bottle, and a length of loosely woven snow-white cloth. "The wound needs to be drained. Geralt will lance it. You pour the antiseptic to flush it out, then apply the gauze."

"Right, sounds simple," Jaskier said, and clutched the bottle like a talisman. "Pour liquid, apply gauze. I can do that. Sure. No problem."

The other Witchers accepted that with dubious looks, but bent back to their work.  _ Easy, _ Jaskier told himself.  _ Just like popping a zit, right?  _

Geralt raised the scalpel and drew it over the abscess in a neat line, parting the skin. For one second, Jaskier thought that it would be fine -- and then blood welled up from the wound and spurted down across Eskel's arm, and Jaskier turned and bolted for the sink before he was noisily sick.

"Jaskier?" Geralt was at his side a moment later, the scalpel thankfully not in hand. "Jaskier, are you all right?"

"Fine! I'm fine!" Jaskier choked out. He glanced over his shoulder and was thankful to see that Vesemir had stepped in to take over for Geralt. "Sorry, that was just, just... I have to sit down." His head felt light in a way that he knew was trouble, like the time he'd stayed up all night at a concert and gotten so dehydrated Geralt had to take him to the ER. 

"What happened?" Geralt frowned at him. "Blood's never bothered you before..."

_ "Monster _ blood doesn't bother me," Jaskier said, taking careful slow breaths until the nausea passed off. "Or, or, I don't know, it's different when a monster does it. It's not -- fuck -- not  _ on purpose..." _

Vesemir spoke up from where he was bent over Eskel's arm. "If your bard is done over there," he said in a damningly neutral tone, "take him out of the room so we can work."

Jaskier flinched and Geralt tensed, and neither of them argued as Geralt led Jaskier back to their bedroom.

* * *

Later that night, wrapped up together in Geralt's massive four-poster, Jaskier tried to make the best of it. "Well, you know what they say," he said. "Third time's the charm! Or is it, three strikes and you're out?"

Geralt sighed, a warm breath that gusted over the side of Jaskier's neck as he kissed his way across it slowly, methodically. They were slotted up together under the heavy coverlet, Geralt holding Jaskier firmly against his chest. Jaskier had assumed it was for Geralt's comfort; it was certainly a comfort of his own having Geralt close, a strong and reassuring presence, a heavy weight on the mattress behind him.

But he thought it was  _ only _ comfort until Geralt's mouth began to travel up to the sensitive points under Jaskier's ear, the one he  _ knew _ made Jaskier sigh and melt, and his hand began to slide from Jaskier's chest down his stomach. And he  _ did _ melt into it -- at least until his better sense caught up to him, at which point he froze. "Geralt?" he squeaked, every muscle tense. "Uhhh... are you sure about this?"

Geralt stilled, then pulled back. With only the dim light reflecting from the hallway Jaskier could barely see his expression but he saw light glitter off his eyes, cast his frown in shadow. "Jaskier," he sighed. "If you don't want it, I don't want it." 

He started to move away; in a sudden panic Jaskier latched onto his arm, pulling him back. "No no no, I want it!" I protested. "I always want you Geralt, I do. I just... here?" He gestured helplessly into the darkness. "In the same house as your... as Vesemir? What if he hears? What if he..." He swallowed. "Disapproves?"

"Then that's his problem," Geralt growled.

"I just..." Jaskier sighed, bringing up the heel of a hand to rub at his forehead. "He already disapproves of me so much, I don't want to piss him off any further. What if he decides --"

Geralt sat up on the bed. Jaskier did too, wanting to have this conversation face to face, even if he could barely see Geralt in the gloom. His hair was a splash of paleness, his eyes a green glint in the darkness. Jaskier had never seen a darkness so complete that he couldn't find Geralt in it.

Geralt spoke at last. "Vesemir doesn't get to decide what I do with my life any more, who I love."

"But he's still your father... or near enough," Jaskier said. "His approval matters to you. I know it does."

"There was a time when nothing mattered more." Geralt shrugged. "But that time was long ago."

Jaskier sighed. "I don't want to cause a rift between you and your family," he said. "Bad enough that my... I don't want to force you to choose between them and me."

"You're not the one forcing me to choose," was all Geralt said.

"Geralt," Jaskier said, helplessly. He didn't know what to say. For once in his life -- maybe the first time in his life -- he couldn't see any way to talk this situation better. Family was family, and it was enough of a hopeless tangle with only a handful of decades for the old hurts to set and solidify. How much more so with two hundred years of history laid on top? How could Jaskier hope to compete against that? How could he even justify trying?

For what felt like a small eternity, Geralt was silent. At last he lay back down, white hair spread out on the pillow. "One day I will lose you," he said, his voice barely audible in the warm darkness. "Whether tomorrow, or fifty years from now, I will lose you. I know it. I'll have to live with it. But I  _ refuse  _ to give up one hour of time with you before then."

Jaskier bit his lip in the darkness, hard. After a long moment he flopped back onto the bed, letting his hands land on either side of the pillow. "And to think I'm supposed to be the poet," he muttered, and rolled over into Geralt's arms.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Breakfast, the next morning, was pleasant despite the damp chill of the morning; hot coffee and sweetened oatmeal could go a long way towards reconciling Jaskier with the world. Also the fact that he had a handsome Witcher at the table with him. Handsome, kickass, noble, slayer of darkness and protector of the innocent,  _ and  _ he let Jaskier steal all of the rehydrated strawberries out of his bowl. Really, what more could one ask for in a boyfriend?

"Geralt," a gravelly voice said from the doorway. A chill went down Jaskier's spine, sending him bolt upright -- a reflex, he realized as he watched Geralt do the same, that they now shared. Vesemir stood at the edge of the room, watching them eat breakfast with his arms folded across his chest. He regarded them with furrowed brow for a moment, then jerked his head behind him. "Go and take care of the horses. Scorpion was limping after paces yesterday -- be sure to check his left leg while he eats."

"Lambert's on stable duty this morning," Geralt gritted out. It was a wonder he could speak at all, with how stiff his jaw was.

"He was. Now you are," Vesemir said brusquely. "Now get."

Geralt stood up from the table -- but slowly, and he hesitated with one hand on the back of his chair. "Why?" he challenged.

Vesemir gave him a stiff frown, the air between them crackling with the challenge. "The boy and I need to talk."

"Anything you can say to Jaskier, you can say with me here," Geralt said, and Jaskier wanted to sink under the table at the same time he wanted to melt at this proof of regard for him. Defying his father for Jaskier -- it was so awfully sweet, and not what Jaskier wanted at all. 

"Geralt," he said and put one hand on his boyfriend's hip. Even through the layers of his clothing he could feel the tense, miserable energy thrumming through him. "It's fine. You can go. We'll have a talk."

Geralt rounded on him and then stilled, eyes searching his as his gaze worked. "Don't leave without me," he said at last, his voice low -- though not low enough that Vesemir could not have heard. "All right? If you go, I go."

Jaskier could only nod, dry-mouthed, loving Geralt so much he thought his heart would burst. But then Geralt left the room, brushing past Vesemir on the way out, and Jaskier was left alone with the formidable old man.

Said old man let out a tired sigh as Geralt's footsteps faded along the deck. He took a moment to rub his face, then refocused his gaze on Jaskier. "Come on," he said, with another little curt gesture of his head out the other door, towards the back porch. "Let's sit and talk, you and me."

Jaskier followed Vesemir obediently out onto the porch, took a seat on the weathered, seam-burst bench. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't for Vesemir to take a seat beside him, fish in the space under the bench for a moment, and come out with two glass bottles. "Have a drink," Vesemir invited him.

He studied the label, wondering what the catch was. It looked like a perfectly ordinary bottle of beer -- a local label, you couldn't find it much outside Kaedwen except in the import shops. "I thought that you Witchers can't really get drunk off beer," he said.

Vesemir twisted the top off his with a grunt and took a drink, then shrugged. "You're right. But there's more reasons for drinking than to get drunk." He gave the unopened bottle in Jaskier's hand a raised eyebrow.

Jaskier felt adrift, wrong-footed in this conversation, but he could recognize a peace offering when he saw one. He drank, and the two of them sat on the porch and watched the first beams of sunshine stretching over the ridge and down across the valley.

He was just about to break and babble when Vesemir spoke first. "You know, I've spent most of the last three hundred years or so up here," he said. "The view doesn't change much, even if the rest of it does. It's pretty quiet up here when the boys are off on the Path; sometimes I can go months without talking to another person. Years, sometimes, not seeing another face besides theirs."

"Sounds kind of lonely," Jaskier ventured. He'd go mad within a week.

Vesemir shrugged. "Loneliness doesn't bother me any more," he said. "But I'm an old man, and I forget things sometimes. Like how it is talking to people who aren't Witchers. I spent so much time up here teaching boys to be Witchers, that I don't know what else there is."

Jaskier found himself floored by this unexpected frankness, and groped for an appropriate response. "They... they respect you a lot," he offered. "I... um. Your good opinion means the world to Geralt, you know."

Vesemir grunted, waving a hand as though to push all that away. "After the Purges, I was the only trainer left at Kaer Morhen," he said. "I was all these boys had, and I did my best, but I never set out to be anyone's father. Don't really know how to be -- never thought that would fall on me, but it did."

Jaskier took another drink and listened, sensing that Vesemir was really not looking for any response from him just yet. 

After a moment, Vesemir continued. "I knew the world would be hard for those boys -- the Path was the only way forward for them. I drove them hard -- don't think I don't know that. Everything I did, everything I taught them was to prepare them for the hardships they would face, because it was all I had left to offer them.

"But, you are not one of my trainees, and you are not one of my sons," Vesemir said with a sigh. "You aren't here auditioning to become an apprentice witcher. You're auditioning for the role of Geralt's boyfriend, and that's not my decision to make. It's his, and he's already made it."

Jaskier blinked in surprise. That... was not what he was expecting. "So... wait... you think I'm worthy of Geralt?" Excitement rose in his voice. "Really?"

"Worthy." A frown pulled the corners of Vesemir's mouth down, and he took another drink, staring out at the horizon. "Worthy. Huh. No idea how I would answer a question like that, boy. What's that even mean, when it comes to you humans?

"Everything we are," and Vesemir's broad gesture encircled himself, the Witchers, Kaer Morhen itself. "Everything we do is to protect your kind from the monsters that still lurk out there. To keep them off the roads, out of the cities. We don't ask for a lot of help from you people because to be honest, we don't usually get it. Doesn't matter. We hunt because the humans can't. If human lives don't have value just for their own sakes, if humans aren't  _ worth _ that, then what the  _ hell  _ are we doing all this for?!"

Jaskier reared back, surprised by the sudden anger in Vesemir's tone. Not directed at him -- the storm seemed to split and flow on either side of him, instead -- but it was still humbling, seeing the smoldering anger of four hundred years flare to life like that.

After a long moment, Vesemir eased back with a weary sigh. "It's what we do," he said. "We protect humans so that they can live their lives unmolested. Safe lives, happy lives. But that is the one thing the witchers could never have for themselves.

"Boy -- " Vesemir set down the empty bottle with a decisive  _ clink _ and turned to pin Jaskier with an intent gaze. "Geralt doesn't need you to be  _ useful  _ to him. He's survived two hundred years without you, he'll go on surviving and doing his job without your help. But you can teach him the one thing I never could, the one thing I always hoped he would learn out there without me: How to be happy."

Jaskier nodded wordlessly; to his surprise, he found his nose stinging and his eyes blurring. 

So were Vesemir's, a shine coming to those old yellow eyes that softened his harsh visage. "You bring joy into his life in a way that nothing else life can," he said. "At the end of the day, that's all that any father can ask for his son."

"Thank you, Vesemir," Jaskier said, voice choking up a bit. He groped for Vesemir's hand and gripped it in earnest promise. "Thank you. I won't let you down. I'll make him happy, I swear."

"Hmm. Glad to hear it," Vesemir said, and shook Jaskier's hand once, a deal made and accepted. "Although... all things considered, it really would ease my mind if you could get a handle on some of that first aid. Just in case."

Jaskier chuckled. "Didn't you say that he'd survived two hundred years without me and he'd survive two hundred more?"

"Most likely," Vesemir allowed, and then his expression turned serious. "But a father worries. Knowing what to do in the critical moment might save a life, boy. Yours  _ or _ his."

Jaskier felt a flash of trepidation at the thought of facing that again -- the blood, the foul smell of the wound. He met Vesemir's gaze as squarely as he could. "I... I'll do my best," he said, and swallowed his nervousness. "Sir."

Vesemir gave him a grave nod. "That's all I ask," he said, and he asked no more.

  
  


* * *

  
  


"Get some of those wasabi corn puffs, if they have them," Jaskier ordered Geralt, following his boyfriend to the car. "You know, the ones with the green packaging. And for the love of God, Geralt, get me some Monster, all these five-thirty AM wakeup calls, I'm  _ dying  _ here."

"You sure you don't want to come along?" Geralt said, letting the cab door slam behind him as he stowed his bag in it. "We probably won't head into town again for another week at least, longer if the snow starts to roll in."

Jaskier shook his head. "There's only two seats in the cab," he said. "So unless I sit on Lambert's lap --"

"Hell no!" Lambert called over from the back of the truck, where he was fixing up the broken tailgate latch. "Don't get me roped into your weird roleplay shit."

"You could sit in the middle," Geralt suggested.

"And get you pulled over?" Jaskier snorted. "The last thing you need is another DWW. I'll be fine, you two have fun. Unless you need me to come along?"

Geralt shook his head. "No. The two of us should be able to manage all the supplies we need," he said. 

Jaskier nodded, even as Lambert called out, "But if we need anyone to stand around and not contribute, we know where to find you!"

"Lambert," Geralt growled, but Jaskier just laughed. He  _ could _ laugh about it, now. 

Geralt looked back at him, lowering his voice. "Is it... okay?" he said. "With Eskel gone, it'll be just you and Vesemir here. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah." Jaskier thought about it for a minute, then began to smile. "You know what, Geralt, I think the two of us will be just fine."

Geralt kissed Jaskier, another one of those kisses that made Jaskier want to melt into his boots on the spot. The kiss might have lasted a lot longer if Lambert hadn't reached over and started up the ignition of Geralt's car, loudly threatening to pop the brake and let the car roll down the mountainside into a ditch if Geralt didn't get a move on. The two witchers piled into the dusty white pickup truck, and began the slow switchback descent down the mountain.

Jaskier turned back to the ranch, watched the afternoon light spread out across the face of the mountains. There was beer to be drunk, guitars to be played, and half a millenium's worth of happiness to make up for.

* * *

~end.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Geraskier Fic Exchange, for jenny aka DancingLassie! The prompt I worked with was "Prompt 4: Modern AU - Vesemir meets Jaskier and decides he’d be perfect for Geralt (his son)." I've always enjoyed the modern AUs in this fandom where Jaskier is a thoroughly modern indie musician and Geralt... is still a Witcher, so that's what I went with. Hope you enjoy it, DancingLassie!


End file.
